


I'm the bad guy (duh)

by numot94 (futureplans)



Series: Twitter Drabble Giveaways [8]
Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Drinking, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureplans/pseuds/numot94
Summary: "I love my boyfriend."Irene pauses, sighs, doesn't get up."It's so hot when you say that."
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Series: Twitter Drabble Giveaways [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1375318
Comments: 2
Kudos: 98





	I'm the bad guy (duh)

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble based on the winning prompt for the Seventh Drabble Giveaway I held on Twitter (https://twitter.com/numot94/status/1214886120040873985): A wenrene story based on the concept "hookups"

"I love my boyfriend."

Irene pauses, sighs, doesn't get up.

"It's so hot when you say that."

"I'm serious."

She resumes her actions, feels Wendy's fingers cling a little tighter to her hair.

She doesn't want to talk. Especially not about this. So at an intake of air, she slides her fingers into Wendy and pumps, harder, until the only sound coming from above are poorly muffled whines.

Wendy leaves the bathroom first. Irene stays behind, washes her face.

Outside, the bartender is lining up a row of prettily colored shots. Irene downs them, one after the other.

/

At a stranger's house. One of Seulgi's classmates or something.

There's three floors and a pool and a fully stocked bar.

Irene is on her fourth vodka cola, watching Wendy and her boyfriend just sit there on the couch.

Does she love him?

… is what she'd ask herself if she was sober. That's the whole point of drinking, isn't it? To stop thinking about all the bullshit she can't control.

Wendy gets up, heads to the stairs. Their eyes meet pointedly.

Irene knows she could just stay right here, not follow Wendy whenever she comes calling, like some idiot who can't help herself.

She gets up.

/

At some shitty club, the music so loud she can't hear a word Seulgi shouts in her ear.

In a bathroom stall, her tongue in Wendy's mouth, tasting whatever fruity cocktail she's been drinking.

Somebody walks in and Wendy freezes. Irene nearly laughs, because all she can hear is that fucking bassline, loud enough to reverberate in her chest.

Her hand slides under Wendy's shirt, flattens against warm skin, skims the lace of her bra.

Wendy's mouth curves into a pretty O, her eyes closed, and she doesn't protest at all.

/

In a dark room, surrounded by purple-ish UV lights.

A crowd, lips and eyes and hands marked in bright fluorescent green, blue, yellow.

It all blurs together when they move, like lingering streaks of color all around.

Maybe she's just drunker than she thought.

There's a mark on Wendy's neck, bright red where Irene pressed her ink-covered lips. She wonders why nobody notices.

Isn't her boyfriend even looking? Because Irene can't ever stop.

She dances closer and closer, until she's brushing against her arms, her chest, her cheek.

Her lips trace the mark again, smudge it. Wendy giggles, pulls her away half-heartedly, her hands tangle in her hair.

She's drunk too.

Irene pulls her back to the bathroom. She follows easily, her eyes dark, her steps uneven.

/

Her hand hurts. She must have punched something.

She can't really remember.

She downs her drink, signals for another.

"Are you okay?"

It's Seulgi. She didn't notice her sitting there.

"Yeah, sure. Fine."

"I saw Wendy storming out of the bathroom."

"Lovers' quarrel."

"Are you sure you should be doing this?"

Oh.

It was the tampon machine. That's what she punched.

She flexes her hand.

"Do you ever find yourself doing something that's so clearly bad for you, but you won't stop? Not because you can't resist, but because it's not like you deserve any better?"

Seulgi's hand lands on hers, stills it.

"Maybe you've had enough to drink for tonight."

The bartender approaches her, sets her drink down on the counter.

"Yeah, maybe."

With her free hand, she reaches for the glass.

/

Joy is one of those straight girls. The ones who like to experiment when they're not so sober.

Joy doesn't have a boyfriend.

It wouldn't be a dealbreaker, clearly Irene's morals don't reach quite that high. But it's still nice to be able to make out somewhere that doesn't smell like piss.

Out in public, where they can be seen.

And they sure are seen. Nothing draws attention quite like two pretty girls sloppily exploring each other's mouths.

She sits on Joy's lap, bites into a plump lower lip, nearly loses her balance when an arm tugs her away.

Cheering whistles turn to disappointed grunts.

Wendy doesn't stop until they're outside, breath forming white plumes as it escapes them.

Irene slumps backward with a smirk.

_You've got some nerve_ , she wants to say.

_What a pretty fucking hypocrite_ , she wants to say.

"Maybe I should do that next time you and your boyfriend are sucking face in the halls."

"It's not like that." But it's exactly like that.

But Wendy can never say it because it would make her a pretty fucking hypocrite.

Her smirk widens, her hand reaches out to fix Wendy's bangs.

"You're cute when you're jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"You're getting better at lying. Practice makes perfect, right?"

Wendy shoves her hand away, stomps back inside.

She could tug at her arm, pull her back to her side. She'd yield, meld into her grip, into her lips.

She lets her go.

/

They never say his name.

It's always "my boyfriend", "your boyfriend".

That's all he is, really. The boyfriend. With the pretty, shiny hair and the disarming smile.

Fucking asshole.

Irene leans against him, playfully smacks her hands on his chest. She bats her lashes at him, savors the way he awkwardly, weakly keeps her away.

Like he doesn't really want to, deep down.

"You have… such a nice jawline." She slides her hand down his face, tracing its curve. "It's, like, so…"

She pauses, lost in her thoughts, then gags.

She throws up all over his white shirt.

The way he starts in horror makes her want to laugh, but when she opens her mouth she just throws up some more.

/

The streets are dark and empty and bitterly cold.

They've been kicked out of the bar, Irene thinks. Probably her fault.

They walk, scattered all across the street. Off on the other side, Wendy's boyfriend and a friend try to wipe at his shirt.

Wendy tries to keep Irene's hands in her pockets, but she pulls them out stubbornly.

They're so cold that they've grown numb. She presses at her fingertips and barely feels it.

She dodges another of Wendy's attempts.

She likes it. Feeling numb.

The alcohol coursing through her does it too, in a different way. But it's the same effect, numbness inside and out, like the world is something to be observed but never felt, never met.

That's the whole point of getting drunk, right? To have fun without worrying, without thinking, without feeling.

She wishes they were still in the bar. Maybe one more drink would do it. One more drink and she'd

finally

stop

feeling

/

She wakes up with a splitting headache.

They're all spread around the dorm room, lying on mattresses and pillows and blankets and whatever they could find.

Next to Irene is Wendy's unconscious body, slung carelessly sideways. Next to Wendy is her boyfriend, topless, one arm slung over her frame.

Irene slips away, sits in the bathroom with a glass of water and a terrible mood.

She should look for an aspirin, but she can't stomach the thought of turning on the light.

Wendy comes in to brush her teeth. Irene finally gets up to rummage through the medicine cabinet.

She brushes, spits, rinses out her mouth.

Irene pins her against the sink and kisses her. Wendy pushes her away with wide eyes.

"My boyfriend is right next door."

"He was next door last night too."

But she's already backed away, returned her attention to the aspirin that she's finally found, because she's too tired for all of this.

"That was different. We were drunk, it was- it was a mistake."

"Yeah."

Wendy wants to say more but she doesn't. She wrings her hands, waits for Irene to speak, but she doesn't either.

She's too tired for all this.

Wendy walks out and Irene pops the aspirin dry, bites into it and feels the bitterness flood her mouth and chase away the taste of toothpaste.


End file.
